Snapshots
by Quillage
Summary: Glimpses into the lives of The Four, their friends, and family in Narnia and beyond.
1. Susan

**This is the first of my "Snapshots" stories.  
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**Disclaimer: I did not create Narnia. I did not create Narnia. I did not create Narnia. I did not create Narnia. I did not create Narnia._  
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**_In Which Susan is Less the Gentle Queen and More Human_**

Susan was having one of her "out" days, as she called them. Everyone was somewhere, with someone, and she was left feeling vaguely left out. Peter and Mel were off doing gods-knew-what after that hilariously awful episode with Lucy in the orchard two weeks prior, Lucy and Tumnus had made for the kitchens two hours before, and Edmund was with the visiting young Prince Corin to whom he'd taken quite an affinity.

Somehow Susan was always the leftover, the third or fifth or seventh wheel. Even among just the siblings she often felt the odd one out. Peter and Edmund were battle-hardened warriors so fearsome in their love for Narnia and one another it was said a platoon of renegades once actually turned and fled rather than face the wrath of The Brother Kings. Edmund and Lucy were the roguish pranksters, the young ones. And Lucy and Peter, well, they were Lucy and Peter. The eldest Queen never felt unloved, quite the contrary. There were simply times when she was... forgotten. Her tendency, in these moments, was to push her siblings to an arms length, a habit Peter had grown frustrated with often.

"Su, if you would only talk to us instead of ignoring the problem, we could help. You're making everything worse by trying to forget about it instead of just bucking up to face it ."

These words would come back to haunt her in another world, years and lifetimes away.

But for now, the Gentle Queen of Narnia simply sighed and reached for her book, her slight sadness forgotten moments later when Lucy exploded through the door, howling with laughter.

"Susan, come look! Tumnus made a giant cake into Peter's likeness and it's AWFUL. You must come with me!"

And Susan did.

* * *

><p><strong>Susan has always been perplexing for me. I find the character fascinating and slightly awful all at once. So I tried to get some of my difficulties with her into this snapshot of her inner feelings. I imagine a lot of my confusion would have been her confusion as well. Hope it did her justice.<strong>


	2. Rhindon

_**Rhindon**_

Rhindon saw many things that none in the whole of Narnia ever breathed possible. The Great Broadsword of The High King witnessed events that would have sucked the breath out of any living creature aside from the one that bore It.

It sung the day the young High King grasped It for the first time, tight and sweaty, unsure of the power he knew It beheld. The sword was by no means magical, but the weight of a thousand conquests and deeds was laid into its' forging. Rhindon remembered the first kill, a wolf that was, at once, of no consequence and incredible import. That was the moment that cemented into Its' owner the fact that he was no longer a boy, no longer playing with toys, but a man with a High King's weapon.

It was there when the boyish King stood his ground against foes in a mere tournament. A small thing compared to the horrific battles past and future, a childish ego-fluffing game for simpletons. But the High King treated the game with dignity and Rhindon served him well. For the idiotic tournament was to be a hearkening to all nations that Narnia was ruled by a fearsome young man with no qualms in regards to conquest. A young King who would defend his country's honor and freedom with blood and sweat, even on sandy, hay-strewn combat floors. Rhindon knew better. Rhindon knew that this playground was but a tear on Peter Pevensie's stormy, weepy conscience.

The day the giants swept into Narnia, Rhindon swept through the air and buried into flesh and bone with alarming swiftness. It hacked away at devils who dared to think they might claim the throne and land from The Four. Blood ran heavy in the fields and rivers around the battlefield for weeks, and it was said any who connected with Rhindon's blade made it no further than a single dying step.

The sword was also there when Peter wept that night. It saw all of his tears. For the High King was a man of full temperament. When he was full of love, all could see. When he has angry, any who looked upon his face feared him. And when he was full of remorse and sadness, he wept, unashamedly. Peter let many a tear fall onto his sword, often even in the throes of battle still. He never forgot that he was killing, and he never fell in love with it.

Rhindon was also there for the happier times, when peace had truly come. The marriage of High King Peter to the Lady Melisande was an affair that brought joyful smiles to all. The sword was present for the awkward consummation of the marriage, and (rather unfortunately) for every enthusiastic coupling there after. For even in the ecstatic throes of passion with his wife, the King never forgot that his kingdom was his first wife. His sword was never further than an arm's length from him.

The laughter of the loving siblings, the food and wine of feasts, the uproarious jokes and confidences of friends; Rhindon saw it all. And then, one day, Peter was gone. Rhindon was laying in a glen, near a dented lamppost when a stranger found and returned It to Cair Paravel.

* * *

><p>When the Pevensies came back to Narnia and Peter again fisted his heavy sword in one hand, Rhindon came alive. Every notch and fixture in it's deadly beauty shone like new, and the supple leather strappings on the handle burned with the High King's touch. Rhindon served Peter well pushing back the Telmarines, the usurpers who had dared to commandeer the High King's throne. The great weapon hissed through throats as it wreaked vengeance on these <em>men<em> who defied Aslan, and later lay polished and cleaned of gore in the scabbard when Peter stood next to the Mighty Lion and heard that he would never return. Rhindon silently wept the tears Peter never did for their loss, the broken connection that would sustain for another two hundred years. Every time the alien High King reached for his sword in England, Rhindon gleamed a little in Its' dark hiding place.

And when the Final Return came, and Peter once again strapped Rhindon to his hip, the sword sang again and never stopped.


	3. Lucy

**_In Which Lucy is Recklessly Magnificent_**

Lucy smiled tearfully at Edmund. Her leg really, really hurt. "Please, Ed, you mustn't tell Peter. He's going to murder me in my sleep."

"Lu, if I don't tell him, he'll murder us both and then where will we be?"

She growled at such very sound reasoning.. Lucy was not looking forward to the lecturing, worrying, and fussing that would follow her about in the next weeks like a rabid, annoying dog. An annoying dog named Peter. In truth, she had not hurt herself badly, but enough to cause considerable pain, and out in the middle of a battlefield medical tent, easy relief was not to be found. The wound was also bleeding quite steadily, making it look much worse than it was, and these factors would only further her brother's self-righteous roiling anger against her disobedience.

Edmund continued (not) comforting her. "Did you really think he wouldn't figure it out? How were you planning on explaining the rather gaping gash in your leg without mentioning you were here? He's not stupid, you know. A bit thick at times, but certainly not to _this_ extent. Anyway, Sis, it doesn't matter now. That faun, Aureelus-something-whoosy, scooted off to find him twenty minutes ago. He'll be here any minute."

And as if Aslan had marked his cue in large red ink, The High King came storming into the small tent, the small bespectacled Aurelius following. Lucy closed her eyes, knowing what was coming next. Peter was fuming, his handsome face an unfortunate shade of red, and all his thick, dark hair standing on end. His voice came out in a hoarse attempt at yelling, a testament to his last three days in steady battle, shouting orders and crying over his fallen men.

"Lucy, I swear by Aslan's Father you will never, never, never leave Cair Paravel again! Ever! And that's if you're extremely lucky and I even let you out of your rooms before I die. What in Bloody Charn were you thinking?"

Small tears crept from under her eyelids and Peter sighed. "Lucy, I-"

The small Queen interrupted in a blaze of fiery eyes and loud words. "Oh do be quiet, Peter! I _told_ you I was coming! If you'd only just grow up a bit and realize that _I've_ grown up, we wouldn't be in this mess. I could have ridden with you and been better protected instead of lurching about on my own! Peter, I understand how much you love Narnia because I do as well. It isn't fair for you and Edmund to forbid me from proving so. I want Narnia safe as much as you do, and I am one of Her queens, despite how conveniently you seem to forget that fact. I should be allowed to protect Her."

Edmund watched his brother's face as pain and pride at their sister's words hit home. She was right. While this may have been a foolish time to prove her point, it was bound to happen. Peter was simply too archaic and honor-bound to stand aside and simply allow his little Lucy to throw herself into battle. This was, most likely, the only way of drawing his attention to this fact.

A weight fell from Peter's shoulders as a new one latched to his heart. Lucy was not a child anymore, she was a queen and had been since that first day under the lamppost. The High King touched his sister's foot, taking care not to shake the wounded leg. "Very well, Lu. I do hate to admit it, but I know you're in the right here. Just… please be careful. I'll worry less if I know you won't be too rash. I'm sorry for the row. Aurelius, I thank you to patch up your queen and my soldier." He smiled, watching her swelled with pride before the faun's poking hands made her yelp. Peter paused before exiting the tent.

"Oh and Lu, all reports say you shamed several of my full-grown men with your rather," Peter coughed delicately, "_enthusiastic_ fighting. Well done."


	4. Peter

**Disclaimer: Shakespeare and C.S. Lewis own basically all of this. I'm just over here in the corner. **_**  
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_**Peter and Henry V**_

Peter stood. It was his turn to present. His Oration class had been a solid bore all term, though his marks were consistently good. End of term presentations had come upon him rather quickly, but he knew exactly what his speech would be, and for once he was excited.

"Good afternoon, Professor, class. Today I will be presenting the 'St. Crispin's Day Speech' from _King Henry V_."

The Professor looked up, intrigued. The speech was no doubt an excellent one, but to believably invoke the words with feeling would be quite a challenge for a 19-year-old university student.

Peter paused, gathering memories. He thought back to raiding the Northern Giants, to his duel with King Vint of Calormene at only 20 years of age; leading an army against insurgents; the battle against Miraz with the Old Narnians.

He took a breath and began.

_What's he that wishes so?_

_My cousin Westmoreland? No, my fair cousin;_

_If we are mark'd to die, we are enow_

_To do our country loss; and if to live,_

_The fewer men, the greater share of honour._

_God's will! I pray thee, wish not one man more._

_By Jove, I am not covetous for gold,_

_Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost;_

_It yearns me not if men my garments wear;_

_Such outward things dwell not in my desires._

_But if it be a sin to covet honour,_

_I am the most offending soul alive._

_No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England._

_God's peace! I would not lose so great an honour_

_As one man more methinks would share from me_

_For the best hope I have. O, do not wish one more!_

_Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host,_

_That he which hath no stomach to this fight,_

_Let him depart; his passport shall be made,_

_And crowns for convoy put into his purse;_

_We would not die in that man's company_

_That fears his fellowship to die with us._

_This day is call'd the feast of Crispin._

_He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,_

_Will stand a tip-toe when this day is nam'd,_

_And rouse him at the name of Crispin._

_He that shall live this day, and see old age,_

_Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,_

_And say 'To-morrow is Saint Crispin.'_

_Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars,_

_And say 'These wounds I had on Crispin's day.'_

_Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot,_

_But he'll remember, with advantages,_

_What feats he did that day. Then shall our names,_

_Familiar in his mouth as household words-_

_Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter,_

_Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester-_

_Be in their flowing cups freshly rememb'red._

_This story shall the good man teach his son;_

_And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by,_

_From this day to the ending of the world,_

_But we in it shall be remembered-_

_We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;_

_For he to-day that sheds his blood with me_

_Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,_

_This day shall gentle his condition;_

_And gentlemen in England now-a-bed_

_Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here,_

_And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks_

_That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day._

The students had grown silently still, and by the end of the lengthy call to arms, all felt they would fight to death behind Peter. His voice was loud and true, and his broad chest breathed with emotion as unbidden tears fell twice, wiped away with a large, unashamed hand.

Peter transformed into the High King before the class' eyes. In that moment, if he had turned and proclaimed to everyone that he once was a mighty king in a far land, there is a strong likelihood that none would have doubted it in the least.

He dropped his head slightly, and moved to sit. Before he reached his chair, however, applause rang loudly through the small classroom, and his fellow students were clapping him on the back and shaking hands. Admirable quips of "Well done, mate" and "Honestly, old man, I'd have followed you to the ends of the earth for a second" followed him. Peter smiled, rather abashed at the attention.

If anything, he felt rather depressed. He had forgotten where he was, and at the last words his mind re-focused to a disappointing sight. There were no beloved generals and army awaiting him, only a small group of peers and an enthusiastic Professor. Peter sat, feeling morose and heaved a sigh. Then he grinned. It _had_ been rather fun.


	5. Mel Scolds

**I own Narnia. PSYCH! **

**But for real, I am Disclaiming : Narnia**_**.  
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_**Mel Scolds**_

"Peter, can we please go? You've been staring at that tapestry for 15 minutes."

"Mel, look at me. I look so… young. So uninspiring, like a… a _child_"

"Well, Oh Bratty King, that is most likely because you _were a child."_

"Yes, but not now. It just doesn't seem like a very good interpretation of me. I don't wish for posterity to view me as a weak boy, but a King. A man."

"Peter Pevensie, you are growing postitively vain. In fact, I do believe you have successfully breached Vanity's point and are in serious danger of outright Arrogance."

Silence in the long hall. A sigh.

"I suppose you're right. It's just a tapestry. And a gift from a friend, no less. I suppose that was rather unkind of me, wasn't it?"

"Yes, my dear, but you are only as human as us all."

"But humanity with all it's faults is not very befitting in a king. Most especially not a king under Aslan."

"If you were any less human you would not be a good king. Aslan chose you for a reason, Peter. Narnia follows you for a reason. Over-analyzing should also be a considered a sin, by the way."

"A sin? We moved rather quickly from simple faults to outright sinning, didn't we?"

"Very funny. You know what I mean."

"I suppose."

"Peter, listen to me very carefully, for I am about to be quite serious, and you know how little-"

"WHAAAT? Mel you can't be… SERIOUS? Aslan save us all - wait! I must record this moment for al-"

"PETER."

"Sorry. Go on."

A deep breath.

"Peter, it is only because of your faults and your ability to recognize such faults, coupled with your very human compassion that you _are_ such a wonderful leader. You should thank Aslan every day for your humanity, the good and the bad. This country looks to you to guide it, and if you did not have the ability to truly grasp the concept of evil and spite, you could not appreciate grace and mercy. You would not be the man you are without both failure and success."

"How I love you, my wise wife. Just what would I be without you?"

"Probably that sniveling, pathetic weakling in the tapestry."

"You're a shrew, Mel."

" My darling, your compliments overwhelm me."


	6. Edmund

**Disclaimer: Narnia ain't mine.**

**I like Edmund, but never wrote anything about him until now. I think this suits him. Enjoy!**_**  
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_**Edmund**_

Edmund was a different person. He had been a different person many times in his life. Lives. Life or Lives? He supposed it was still, technically, just the one life since he hadn't died and begun a new one.

First he had been the traitor child. The mean, jealous brat who refused to acknowledge anything but his own selfish wants. Then he had become a repentant, Aslan's servant, a King. Before he became a man, Lucy told him of Aslan's full sacrifice for him. For all, she had insisted, but he knew in a way it was for him alone. He had grown up quiet, solemn with the weight of this knowledge. Edmund the Just. Edmund the Judge. Edmund the Law. He was Aslan's justice for years. His brother was the joyous knight, the fierce emotional warrior, while Edmund fought by his side, stoic in the face of his brother's tears.

But when they returned, something changed. As he grew older, Edmund no longer felt the weight of doling judgement on a kingdom. Peter ached for his country and the heaviness of his responsibility; Edmund did not. Oh, he wept when they came back. He wept more than ever seemed possible, and when he was told there would be no more return for him, Edmund sobbed for weeks every night into his limp pillow.

Perhaps it was because he was still so young when it first happened, or maybe it was because his relationship with the people was different. There were a million different reasons why Edmund felt freer. It angered Peter, at times. Edmund tried to explain it over and over, it wasn't that he didn't miss Narnia, and it certainly wasn't that he forgot. He knew and he loved, but it wasn't the same. Edmund grew up in England a jaunty joker; a young man full of laughter and a vigor that his siblings were often grateful for. It became clear to Peter that it was a good thing Ed didn't share his wrenchingly constant longing for Narnia. If he had, everyone would have fallen into a depression with little hope of saving. For it was Edmund and Edmund alone who was able to make them all laugh for the first time back in England, and it was Edmund who forced Lucy back into her giggle fits and Mel into her sweet sly wit.

Yes, he had changed many times. From sulky child to upright King. From a fumbling youngster trying to keep his siblings happiness afloat, to a joyful man surrounded by family.

Aslan certainly knew what he was doing when he created this wonderful chameleon. King Edmund was not _just _Just. He was not _just _anything.


	7. The Triplets

**These characters are from my first story "In Which Our Tale Begins." **

**Oh and also - I do actually own almost everything in this story, except for the whole Narnia thing. You know.**_**  
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_**The Triplets**_

The Troupe Triplets were born bald as their tiny, baby bottoms. While this startled their pint-sized mother, she shrugged it off, simply glad that the agony of birthing three large boys was over. However, by the time they were all 15 years of age and still bald as the blessed day they arrived, she began to worry. The Triplets did not worry.

In fact they quite enjoyed their abnormality, using to it to gain sympathy from strangers (it was a curse only to be broken by the kiss of a gentle maid), scare small children ("Look at what the savages did to me - skinned me aliiive!"), and convince the local baker that they just needed more food for their hair to grow (Grilt's personal favorite until their mother tattled).

It was not until Rindale refused them entry into the Troupe that it occurred to them… perhaps baldness was indeed a negative quality. Three days later, the Triplets turned up at the final listing for Troupe Auditions, bedecked with various colors of horse-hair sewn into their hats. The effect was, to say the least, unsettling. Three spindly youngsters that were identical in every way, down to the very moles on their right hands, sporting three identical purple pointed hats. Red jerkins tucked into yellow pants, in turn tucked into black leather boots. Even the cocked left knees were at the same jaunty angle. Except that hair. The hair had obviously come from about 10 different horses, and was an odd assortment of lengths, colors, and thicknesses. Three sets of golden eyes peered under brown and red wisps, challenging Rindale to send them away again.

Rindale stared for a solid five minutes before the impatient Finkle punched his arm, hard. He blinked slowly, and then gestured for the strange brothers to continue with their precious audition. And what an audition it was. Magic tricks, tumbling, juggling, jokes, and even a small, damp firecracker right at the end, which left everyone a bit red and watery in the eyes from smoke.

Rindale puffed on a blackwood-cut pipe for a moment, calculating the ridiculous sight before him.

"You're in."

The conditions being, of course, no more firecrackers, the jokes must stay within appropriate performance confines (Griz scoffed at this, and to this day, no one truly knows where the scripted jokes began and ended), lose the hats (Griz scoffed again), and here was their payment, welcome aboard.

The final condition was that matching hair be found for them. Grilt and Gram liked the chocolate brown, but Griz felt that it washed out his complexion. All three enjoyed being blonde, but the first night they had to sleep on an inn floor, the next morning heard loud, adamant refusals to wear the smudged wig-hats. They tried black, blue, grey, and even an atrocious light purple that clashed so horridly with their hats and outfits even unflappable Prist staggered away, dazed. Then they found it. They found a beautiful red roan that had died birthing it's foal in the snow. The hair went to the Triplets who took one appreciative look at one another before declaring in unison, "Hello, handsome." The red roan's foal stayed with the Troupe (Gram named him Handsome) and the Troupe Triplets passed into Narnian lore as the Red Three. This was a fact Grilt found quite annoying, considering _purple_ was actually their favorite color, and they had wanted to stay bald in the first place. The overwhelming _gumption_ of some people astounded him. Red Three, indeed.


	8. Lucy and Mel and Peter

_**Lucy Gets an Eyeful**_

Lucy would never forget that awful moment. Not that Edmund would let her, or anyone else for that matter. It was one of his favorite stories, though a good part of his enjoyment came purely from seeing his dignified elder brother squirm and blush.

Lilygloves and his mate had just had an adorable baby girl mole and Lucy was racing about Cair Paravel to inform everyone within eye or earshot. She was hunting Peter when a young faun said he had seen the High King and his wife heading toward the Orchard just moments before. Lucy ran through the young trees, and, finding no one about, burst into the caretaker's shed. The door flew back and her joy careened into screams of horror. There they were, her brother and sister-in-law, panting and barely clothed; slamming up against the wall. Frantically they swung around to see who the intruder was, and catching a glimpse of Lucy's frozen face, their yells instantly matched hers before she fell out the door in her haste to leave the gruesome sight.

Across the orchard a small group of Narnians heard the noise and flew towards the shed in alarm, fearing the worst. As they arrived, the situation quickly became clear. Peter and Mel were stumbling out of the shed, Peter's shirt still off and Mel giving up on her wild hair as she struggled to adjust her dress with one hand. The three were yelling over one another and Lucy had both fists clamped firmly over her eyes, and what could be seen of the rest of her face was beet red.

"WHY! Why Why Whyyyy In the name of all holiness.. I can't… UGHH! WHY?" Lucy's shrieks grew louder by the second, nearly drowning out Peter's demands to know why she hadn't knocked. (A question Lucy would later mock him for endlessly, "Why didn't I knock on the _caretaker's tool shed? _You really are a goose.") Mel could not stop apologizing and into the chaos was thrown long, whooping laughs, courtesy of the small group initially bent upon 'rescuing' the royals. The orchard crew moles were soon supported by the large bear who was crying from laughter, while Aurelius the Faun rolled on the ground, knocking over a small badger. As they watched their red-faced High King pull his wife toward the castle, the animals were able to catch their breath for a moment before catching sight of the youngest Queen dashing haphazardly across the Orchard, still screaming every so often. This sight sent them all collapsing into one another again and it was quite some time before they were able to walk away.

Very few people actually heard the details of the encounter, but it didn't take very long for Narnians to hear the 'vague' gossip about their rather excitable High King and the Lady Mel. The story became a favorite, and combined with other unfortunate encounters with the happy young couple in various places about the castle, served as great entertainment in the wee hours of the morning over several cups of wine. Everyone thought it quite adorable, and incredibly hilarious. Everyone, that is, except for Lucy. She did not find it funny at all. Even now, at seventeen years of age (again), it made her gag.

"Lu, remember the day of Petulia's birth? I remember it well… that was the day that Peter and Mel went off an-"

"Edmuuund! Please do shut up! Blecchh."


	9. Aurelius

**_Aurelius_**

Queen Lucy was, above all, simply a gem of a person and his Queen. But right now, in this moment, she was a child. A child Aurelius wanted to slap. Her older sister wasn't helping matters just staring at the young faun as though he ought to know what to do. Which he clearly did not.

He was a simple bookkeeper. An assistant. He scrambled back through his memory to try and mark when and how he'd been handed this terrifying task. He was loyal and could be brave when necessary, always efficient and extremely intelligent; but babysitting and scolding the young monarchs of his beloved country took an unprecedented amount of focus and patience. Qualities which seemed to be running low, at the moment. How in the name of the Lion had he been landed with this monster?

Lucy was hunched in her chair, as far from her (now) cold vegetables as possible, sporting a mangy scowl on her face. It was a look that frightened most others; a look she rarely wore but was eerily reminiscent of a wolfhound just ordered to eat its own… well… you know. No one dared go to war against that face. Except, apparently, Aurelius (or so _he_ had just been informed).

Lucy always said the bookish faun was frighteningly like his Uncle Tumnus, and in this moment, with those words strengthening him, Aurelius knew he must stand his ground. Tumnus would. Tumnus, who had extensive experience dealing with the 10-year old Queen of Narnia, and frightening creatures of all manner, not to mention The White Witch. Tumnus. Wait, where _was_ Tumnus?

He was informed his Uncle was currently 'out of the country'.

"Coward," muttered Aurelius.


	10. First Day of Term

**_First Day of Term_**

Peter feared for Edmund when the time came for them to be separated. They had made it to the train station and through the girls' tearful goodbyes. Edmund rubbed his worn coat sleeve roughly across his eyes as they waved to Lucy's fluttering hand, excusing his red nose and tear tracks with mutters about train smoke and London fog. Peter instinctively grabbed Ed's hand, the two standing shoulder to shoulder in silence.

It was the nightmares, really. That was the basis of his concerns, Peter told himself. Edmund would continue to wake screaming in the night, grasping at nonexistent weapons and wounds. They both would. It would just be a bit more disconcerting wake up to a room full of strangers. Well, not strangers, really. Friends, schoolmates. But not each other. Not brothers.

Peter was worried for himself, certainly. Worried about keeping roommates up at night, worried about how different they would undoubtedly seem and feel. But mostly he worried about Edmund. Because of the nightmares. Yes.

It had nothing to do with the scathing fear that gripped him when Edmund was out of sight, nothing to do with the (once) unashamed reliance he had on his younger brother, or the loving pride he saw reflected back in the dark eyes. And it definitely wasn't that Ed was his best friend, his confidant and warrior-in-arms, and he was being taken away. It was the nightmares. Edmund had nightmares, you see.

Rather suddenly, they were at The House. They were being moved into their respective lines, herded toward their different dorms with too many people they didn't know anymore. Blank eyes met panicked ones across the hall and Edmund tapped his fist to his heart in a knee-jerk salute to his High King.

Peter wept throughout the night, and for the first time he didn't dream.


End file.
